


A Surfeit of Feeling

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma. (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Feelings, Kissing, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Yuletide 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: Emma could not recall the last time she had experienced so many emotions in the span of a single evening.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 27
Kudos: 151
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Surfeit of Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kim47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/gifts).



> This is probably my favorite adaptation of Emma yet. And so, hopefully for your entertainment: a minor delay in a certain interruption the morning after the ball, and what could have happened next.

Emma could not recall the last time she had experienced so many emotions in the span of a single evening. In all her twenty-one years in the world, it seemed that she had plumbed no greater depths than mild irritation, soporific boredom, a blush of affection, or a content familial sort of love— all of which had been cast in the shade by one night's brief span within the Crown.

Her fury at Mr. Elton's pointed disregard of Harriet— her disgust at Mrs. Elton's vulgar pretensions— the enjoyment of swirling about the floor: there were far too few opportunities to dance in Highbury, and fewer chances to visit anywhere that balls might be a more frequent feature. The warmth that had swelled within her upon observing Mr. Knightley's kindness to Harriet— the sweetness of knowing their opinions to be once more in tune— and the breathless incandescence of the dance that had followed.

 _Not so much brother and sister_. No, indeed. Emma acknowledged the full absurdity of that observation as she stepped out of her carriage into the soft glow of a newly broken day.

Their families had known one another for as long as she could remember; and Mr. Knightley in particular had been a near-constant fixture at Hartfield at least since the marriage of his brother and Isabella. She had not been used to moderate her behaviour for him; nor he, indeed, in all the history of their acquaintance. Such scoldings! Such differences of opinion! Such showings off for one another: she taking care to always be embarked upon some industrious attitude the moment she perceived his approach, he seeming to delight in striding about Highbury without his carriage and espousing any opinion that might run contrary to hers. Nothing had ever passed between them that she might have termed romantic: merely another feature of her circumscribed existence, alternatingly entertaining and aggravating by turns, but nothing that rose to either the level of pure joy or extreme vexation.

But then Mr. Knightley had clasped her bare hand in his, and drew her close enough that they might have shared breath, and the rest of the dance had passed in a dizzying whirl. No term so limited as enjoyment could compass that intoxicating interlude, particularly in those instants when they had touched or looked into one another's eyes. No other dance that evening had been its equal; not even the opening dance with Frank Churchill, which had excited no greater ruffle of spirits than that created by having to stand second to Mrs. Elton at a ball Emma had quite regarded as being particularly held for her. She had even been able to note Mr. Knightley then among the observers; to lament his not dancing. Whereas when he had accepted her own invitation after supper, she remembered very little else but his touch and his looks from the very moment the music began.

Her breath came short again now, just from the memory of it; surely it was not only her imagination that he had been equally engrossed? That moment when they had unaccountably lost the rhythm and nearly been trampled by the other dancers— surely that had not been solely her mistake?

Surely not. Emma pressed a cool hand to her heated face as she wandered through the halls of her home, absently directing her feet toward the corridor outside Miss Taylor's former room. Now did she truly feel the difference between a dear companion residing under her own roof and a Mrs. Weston, half a mile away, with a family of her own! She would surely have known whether Emma was merely carried away by the unusual atmosphere of the evening, investing such glances and grazings of fingers with undeserved importance, undoubtedly to make up for the disappointment of _not_ finding herself in love with Frank Churchill despite the encouragement of virtually every body within her sphere.

Except, of course, for Mr. Knightley....

Emma let her shawl drop to the floor behind her at the remembered sensation of his hand, pressed clingingly to her waist; of the intent look in his eye as they drew closer in the dance. Like something out of a dream, or a novel— one she was not sure she wanted ever to close. Absently, she unlaced her dancing shoes and climbed into the nearest window embrasure, senses buzzing with exhaustion and yet not quite ready to quit the waking world for slumber. Else how could she be sure it had all really happened, when next she woke?

She turned her head to look out— and as if summoned from the fertile ground of her feverish thoughts, there stood Mr. Knightley in the courtyard below: gazing up directly toward her window, gilded by the early morning light. It seemed only a moment since she had left him behind outside the Crown— and yet there he was. Impossible creature! She could scarcely define, nor contain the emotions that rose within her breast at the sight; surely he had not always looked so— so— _thus_?

There seemed no other possible action in that moment but to fly down to the courtyard and join him: and so she did. Emma's heart pounded unaccountably at the sight of his tousled hair in the early sunshine, and it was all too easy to fancy an equal distraction in his own breast; his gaze was fixed, entirely fixed upon hers as she drew close, until she drew to a halt before him.

There was such a surfeit of feeling with her, a sensation of being pulled toward him that she had never experienced before and hardly knew how to resist. All her teasings of Frank Churchill about Jane Fairfax's possible suitor, all her disdain for Harriet's rustic admirer, seemed as childish pettiness beside the electric sensation that grounded through her as Mr. Knightley's hat dropped from his fingers to the flags of the courtyard and his ungloved hand raised as though to cross the remaining distance between them.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Emma to take those few more steps; to set her hand within his in echo of their movements in the dance, and lift her face to recapture that closeness.

She would have thought she was familiar with all of Mr. Knightley's looks and sounds, given the course of their long acquaintance— but the groan that rose in his throat at her gesture was entirely new, the way his gaze dropped to her mouth as he raised his other hand to brush against her cheek something she had never comprehended in any attempt to sketch his form. His fingers trembled against her skin; then his mouth lowered upon hers, and she was wholly lost.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was aware of where they stood; but the magic of the dance, the languor of the early hour, lent the vague space around them an air of fantasy, as though she had trod right out of her everyday existence into a fairy land. What breaths followed, what brushes of mouth, what clasping of hands, she could scarcely say: only that her world had narrowed down again to include only their two selves and nothing more. She had no thought for any thing occurring outside of that small bubble, or indeed in the next moment, only the one before her—

—until with a shocking suddenness, she heard a voice cry out somewhere beyond the courtyard, and broke away with a gasp to behold the approach of an even more unexpected pair.

Frank Churchill, carrying Harriet! And both of them staring at her in evident surprise! Emma's hand flew to her tingling mouth, and she spared one overwhelmed, distraught glance toward Mr. Knightley's equally stunned face before hurriedly stepping around him to address her friend.

In all the whirlwind of their explanation— something about being set upon, and a borrowed pair of scissors— Emma could feel the burning of her cheeks at having been so seen; at having so forgot herself! They were not engaged; they were not even courting, and to have thrown herself at Mr. Knightley in such a way— as gratifying as it was that he had reciprocated in turn, _she_ knew how she ought to have behaved, and to have been caught so! It was beyond enduring.

Why, Harriet refused to look at either of them beyond a glance, even as they eased her onto the sopha and Mr. Knightley checked her ankle for injury. And the sly look upon Mr. Churchill's face, when he asked in an unfamiliar tone of voice what Mr. Knightley's purpose there was, and received only an awkwardly stammered nonsensical answer about a carriage! Emma hardly knew what she did, or what she said, before Mr. Churchill finally left to speak with his father about something or another, and one of the maids left to send for Perry— and Mr. Knightley drew her aside again at last in an adjoining room.

"Emma," he said, then repeated himself, at an apparent loss for words. "Emma, I...."

She forced words through her own lips, still as caught by the sight of him as she had been out in the courtyard, despite what she knew he would say next. What _he_ undoubtedly knew he should say, and apparently couldn't manage to complete.

Desperate confusion surged within her. Did he— did he regret their actions out in the courtyard? Was she good enough to kiss, but not enough to marry? But of course he was the best man of her acquaintance; he would not have so acted but out of genuine feeling. Yet she had been so mistaken before in others' feelings— and of course she _couldn't_ marry; Emma had always said she could never leave her father, he knew that very well indeed. But they'd been seen: _she_ would be the next subject of gossip in Highbury, a titter behind everyone's hand worse than the day Jane Fairfax's pianoforte had arrived with no indication of its sender.

"Mr. Knightley..." she began, then faltered, finding herself no more able to continue than he.

It was enough, however, to break something loose within _him_ ; the strain on his face at last gave way to a familiar smile. Emma recognised it as the one he always wore when she'd done something to amuse him, and bit her lip as he reached for her hand once more.

"Am I not to be George to you, even now?" he said; and just like that, she was chuckling too. It was not as if it would even be the worst breach of propriety she had committed that morning, after all; and she could not conceive of him smiling at her that way and regretting her at one and the same time.

"Ask me again when I am not dizzied with amazement," she said, then shook her head. "The look on Harriet's face just now— I don't even know what I'm going to say to her!"

He lifted her hand to his lips, smiling at her over the backs of her fingers. "That you are engaged, of course. That is, if ... surely you understand me...?"

How could it even be possible to feel so many things at once? Irritation at his presumption; yet such giddy relief that it lent a pert lightness to her tongue. "If! We have gone about this entirely out of order, you realise; I have yet to even hear any such question uttered, and if either of us had consulted my father's opinion on the matter...."

Emma laughed at the consternation that came over Mr. Knightley's— George's? No, Mr. Knightley's— features at that remark, and when he opened his mouth again as if to reply, indulged in another impulse and rose up on her toes, pressing her lips full against his once more.

It was only a brief brush, this time: not as electric as before but somehow more ... effervescent, and with the half of her mind not wholly enthralled by the look of delighted amazement he replied with she wondered just how many types of kisses there were, and how long it would take to discover them all.

Then the rushing sound of footsteps prompted her to pull back, just in time to assume a discreet distance before her Papa came hurrying in, followed closely by Bartholomew and Charles.

 _Later, Emma_ , Mr. Knightley mouthed at her, eyes twinkling.

She gave him a castigating glance in reply; but did let her fingers linger on his hand as she brushed past him to hurry back to Harriet's side.

Her friend was still quieter than her wont, but did finally meet her gaze again, to Emma's relief; and as she knelt beside the couch, clasping Harriet's hand, Harriet's mouth curved in a faint smile. "He loves you, doesn't he? Of course he does," she said, quietly, under the hubbub of the men's conversation. "Who wouldn't?"

Emma could not stop a blush from rising to her cheeks; she squeezed her hand gently in return. " _You_ should not," she laughed softly. "Because if what you felt for your Mr. Martin was at all how I feel just now, then it was wicked of me to discourage you. I am so sorry, Harriet."

Harriet's smile became a little crooked, but she shook her head. "You did say— if a woman wasn't sure— and I obviously wasn't. Silly of me, really. You wanted better for me, and I almost...." Her gaze flickered up to the others behind Emma, then back. "I almost let myself believe it." She gave a wavering little laugh, then attempted a smile again. "Such highs and lows of emotions in a single day! I hardly know what to expect next!"

"Now _that_ is a feeling I know very well indeed," Emma replied, and leaned forward to encircle her friend's shoulders in a hug.

Then she leaned back again and turned to meet George's warm gaze.

There were complications in plenty yet before them— there was her father yet to be considered in any plan for her marriage, others whose dearest wishes must be gently let down, and such a contribution to Highbury gossip would draw scarcely less attention the other possibility she had considered. 

But remembering once again that moment out in the courtyard— 

She smiled helplessly at him in return, and knew, finally and completely, what it was to be in love.

* * *

The tumult of Harriet's care, of calling for Perry and notifying those with the power to do something about the trampers in the lane where Harriet had been accosted, did not permit of a more detailed canvassing of the pertinent subject that morning, though she had no doubt of its occurring soon enough. In the meantime, though he had teased her about talking to Harriet, she felt a curious hesitance at admitting what had passed between them to any body; the realisations, the feelings were still so new even to herself, that the idea of exposing them so soon really almost made her tremble.

Emma hardly knew how she got through the rest of that day, and most of the next, in such suspended anticipation. Facing the usual little nothings of society on very little rest and such upheaval of emotion rendered her, she feared, very nearly as uncommunicative as Jane Fairfax. Even Miss Bates seemed to notice; her flow of conversation was interrupted no less than three times in one visit about her concern that Miss Woodhouse might not have escaped the ball in perfect health, insisting most urgently that she should take the seat next to dearest Jane in the warmest part of the room.

She had not Harriet with her, as her friend was resting her injured foot at Mrs. Goddard's, and felt it easier to acquiesce, than to escape— intending, for once, to actually do as she ought rather than as she would prefer, out of some confused notion of how Mr. Knightley should react when she told him of it later. She wondered at herself at not being first in her own opinion for once— and then was forced to conceal a smile, as she realised that his disapprobation had been quite the worst part of any misstep she had made for longer than she would care to recall. Perhaps it was not _such_ a surprise that she had found herself so jealous of any other claim to his attention.

Miss Fairfax gave her a curious look at that very moment, obviously perceiving more than Emma should wish; and a wave of genuine sympathy rose within her as she remembered all that she had perceived and said of the other young woman's romantic trials. Whatever the truth behind the delivery of the pianoforte, whatever improper mischief Frank Churchill had goaded her to on the subject, if Jane's heart held even the half of what Emma's did, for any object, without any apparent hope of outlet— small wonder that she should be so reserved! How ridiculous Emma's envy, in retrospect! She bit her lip, then seized a moment as Miss Bates turned to address a loud comment to her mother and set a careful hand on Miss Fairfax's arm.

"I must take this opportunity to apologise," she said, in a low, confiding voice.

"I do not have the pleasure of understanding you." Miss Fairfax seemed at once mildly confused and apprehensive at such an address; a reaction Emma chose to ignore, as not reflecting very well upon her own past behaviour, except to wonder that _that_ should be what finally broke the imperturbability of her countenance.

Emma responded with a sincere smile. "I have found myself lonely this year since Mrs. Weston's marriage; and hoped, I will admit, that two years' distance might have made you and I more able to be friends. To have met instead with such reserve— I took it in despite, rather than as the very natural reaction of one whose time and secrets are not owed to any whim of mine. I am afraid I have not been very kind; and a recent realisation— that is to say— you have not deserved it."

Miss Fairfax stared for a moment; Emma almost thought, briefly, that somehow she knew what Emma had been going to say, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of Highbury's perfect daughter, cried up by everyone as without fault, knowing herself superior to Emma in yet another way. But then Jane's eyes welled with tears— hastily blinked away with another apprehensive glance toward her grandmother and aunt— and the suspicion was lost. "If you have not been kind— then I have certainly given you no reason to be otherwise. I know I have not been open; the circumstances— knowing what I must go to after this summer— certain realisations of my own—" She trailed off there, as if uncertain what to say next either. 

A moment's thought easily filled the gap with the marriage of Miss Fairfax's friend, whose companion she had chiefly been these past twelve years; the prospect of at last having to take the position of a governess for which her benefactors the Campbells had always intended to fit her; and the enticing complication of perhaps a forbidden romance. But no; Emma would not let her imagination run away with her again.

"You need say no more," she said, solemnly. "Let us instead shake hands. And if you ever have any need of other occupation— I am always looking for someone to walk with; and we may talk of any thing you choose."

There was no time for more private conversation, as Miss Bates' attention returned to her niece; but Emma really thought, from the relieved light in Jane's eye, that she might take her up on it. And what a wonder that should be: that all it had taken to settle one of the thorns in Emma's life was a little plain speaking! Mr. Knightley would be amused; she was allowing him undue influence already.

Her anxiety rose again a little as she walked back to Hartfield; an uncertainty not much alleviated by her intervening brief visit to see Harriet, who still seemed low in spirits. She felt the need to do something more there; to restore her friend, if possible, to the equal of her own delighted understanding, even if that should mean a re-introduction of Robert Martin. But the sight of Mr. Knightley in the chair by the fire again, opposite her father, as on so many other evenings, washed all such concerns away in a surge of warmth. There was a candle on the table beside him, and a book in his hand; but the brightness of his eye as he rose to greet her, and the immediate abandonment of the volume, were all the encouragement she could wish to lift her spirits back to the confused joy of the day before.

She thought she perceived her father's gaze darting between them; and knew he at least must suspect _something_ , after he immediately began to complain of a draft and call for Charles and Bartholomew. But she could not think of merely sitting on the other side of a screen from her father and indulging in that degree of feeling which she had previously entered into; imagine if some sound—! A blush overspread her cheeks, and she said some gentle nonsense about the pianoforte— a new song— needing his help to turn the pages— and by such measures escaped to the next room.

She would not go so far as to close the door; and she did not imagine the general substance of the interlude would be concealed from her father, if he already felt so secure as to give such a great hint; but she simply could _not_ know every detail overheard without feeling greatly self-conscious.

"What have you said to him?" she murmured quietly, with a speaking look, as soon as they were out of direct hearing.

"Not a word; I promise you," he replied earnestly; and for a moment her gaze was thoroughly snared by the dark gold of his hair catching the light of the candles, the way his lower lip curved as he spoke— but then she scolded herself. To be distracted from such an important conversation by the aesthetics of her oldest friend— she _must _be madly in love.__

__"Though I confess," he continued ruefully, "I do now begin to wonder if I may have been missing other hints in the past, if such is his manner of encouragement."_ _

__His gaze dropped to her own mouth as she replied; and she nearly lost the thread of her own meaning. "But surely ... he cannot mean for me to leave him...."_ _

__"And of course you will not," he continued, taking her gloved hand in his, and gently— how was it possible something so mundane should so excite her?— beginning to peel the glove away. "For as I already seem to spend the half of my time here, it will be no great change to remove here entirely."_ _

__"You would...?" Such a perfect solution, such willingness to promote her father's comfort as well as her own, had nearly as rapturous an effect on Emma as the kiss Mr. Knightley next pressed to her wrist. A fine tremor passed through her as she stepped even closer, and with a slow smile he pressed his next directly to her lips._ _

__And the next, and the next, and then her décolletage— the warmth of his hands— Emma was quite breathless by the time they recollected themselves at some small noise in the next room and pulled once more apart. She felt quite overheated, and had the impression she had _still_ but scratched the surface of the delightful art of kissing; and if she looked even the smallest degree as dishevelled as the man with whom she had spent so wondrous an interlude, every body who saw them must have no doubt what had passed between them._ _

__"I think," Mr. Knightley said rather huskily, "that this had better be a rather short engagement."_ _

__A laugh rose to the surface of her spirits, and she found to her delight that she could chide him yet: in all the flush of new awareness, their foundations had not been lost. Though she did not in the least disagree; still, the forms must be followed. "I still have yet to hear the question, you know," she teased._ _

__"My dear Miss Woodhouse," he said, shaking his head; "my dearest Emma. Will you not marry me?"_ _

__She could, of course, do nothing else but answer _yes_._ _


End file.
